


What You Say You Are

by Davechicken



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Introspection, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: The Iron Bull has never met anyone quite like Dorian before.But he most certainly likes it.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	What You Say You Are

Since he'd first travelled, the Iron Bull had learned a lot. Anything he did learn was always useful, somewhere down the line, and he added any new information into the vast repository of facts, figures, languages, hints, tricks, clues and skills. 

If he was feeling particularly cynical, he'd class bedsport as just another element of his - ahem - spycraft. Admittedly one of the more personally enjoyable tricks up his wholly metaphorical sleeve. 

The Qunari did things differently. Not better. Not worse. (And wasn't that hard to admit, even to himself, even now.) He'd learned the basics of his own pleasure first, and later he'd found the surprising amount of additional pleasure to be enjoyed in seeking that of others. 

Just like any bodily knowledge. Where to push the blade to cause the most damage. Where to press the finger to elicit the strongest response. Elves tended to enjoy their ears, but usually the cultural discomfort would dampen the mood too much to risk it. Humans responded particularly to scents. Dwarves were usually not interested in him, in particular. Females, males… the differences were as wide between the members of any group as between the groups. Subtle trends, perhaps, but he would group people more by their primary motivations and personalities, than their gender, sex, race, or social standing. Patterns, not rules. 

He'd been fascinated by the addition of social mores and intrigue over sex. The rules of castes, races, magic, and boundaries. It added more layers to what he'd originally thought of as little more than a bodily need like bathing, sleeping, eating… Less frequent, less urgent (unless right in the throes of it), and usually more pleasant. But a need. And not much more. 

Of course, he knew his function in the Qun demanded things others wouldn't need to do, but he also had discretion. He could perform his duties perfectly well without ever bedding anyone. If he understood the interplay, the unspoken dance, the cues and how to prompt… he needn't have ever done more. 

But what fun would that have been? 

He wouldn't have discovered several new things his body rather liked. He wouldn't have slept so easily some nights. It would have been a little more difficult to know for sure that he had the right interpretation of interactions, motivations. And he'd have had less orgasms. (Which not even the Arishok could deny were good when done right.) (Probably.)

So he had. 

He'd enjoyed soft, full-busomed females with jiggling bits and wet insides. Sharp, bony things of all types with cheekbones you could split a hair on, and the oddly thrilling idea that you could shatter them any moment. Fiercely proud things who wanted to impress him. Dainty, decorous men and dainty, decorous ladies. Those who looked demure and fucked like a whirlwind. Those who were full of talk and who deflated in practice. Shy, inexperienced but earnest ones. Ones who barely let the dick drop before they were gone, and ones who wanted a little time to cool down together. 

Ones who were drinking partners with urges. Ones who looked curious and wanted a taste. Ones who he would never see again. Ones he might catch for another go around, if the stars aligned, but he wouldn't seek them out. 

Never his crew. No. They needed him in different ways, and he wasn't prepared to enter that web. They weren't… it was different, okay. It just wasn't right. 

But it was all urges. Or information. Or something along those lines. At least, until the damned Vint mage. 

Bull knew he was a flirt. He liked being a flirt. And anyone he flirted with… maybe he meant it, maybe he didn't. 

But it was just that. Flirting. An offer of physical exchanges, or verbal ones. 

Until. The damn. Vint. Mage. 

Oh, he'd tell himself it was just like talking to the Boss, or Krem, or whoever. But it wasn't. It… hadn't been. 

Something about him just… called to Bull. And the romantic in Varric or Cassandra would spout some bullshit (hah) about opposites, or something, but Vint mages who didn't fit in weren't a new thing. And he had even been around them. 

It was just… ugh. Timing, maybe. Stupid, definitely. 

He'd… he was Tal-Vashoth and… it was… he had his team and…

He'd. Said things. Like. How they were… similar. 

Which, okay, not news to anyone with half a mind. But he'd meant it. He'd said it. He'd reached out, across that divide, and it fucking mattered for once. 

It fucking mattered. This did. He did. 

Qunari didn't take partners. Didn't have… breeding relationships. They had relationships, but… you put the Qun first, always. You didn't… it was… Everyone was your family, not just ones who shared your blood. 

Qunari didn't do this. 

They didn't. You just. Couldn't. 

So he hadn't. And he hadn't ever wanted to, or even felt the urge, not before. 

It was all Krem's fault. And the rest of them. Being all… lost. Lacking that path, that surety. And being all… reliant on him. And making him proud. And being somehow able to all get along and find a common goal and language and exist with all their differences. 

They'd made him broody, which was stupid. 

And then jealous, which was even more stupid. 

Maybe a few years ago, he'd have tried to recruit Dorian. What a coup that would have been! A Vint mage. Basically fucking Magister quality. Bred like him, to be the best he could be. Given a path to follow before his parents even met. 

Yeah. The message to anyone who heard would have been enough, without his skills. Without the acumen and influence. 

But Bull had wanted more. More than just another charge. More than just… a drinking buddy. A verbal sparring partner. And to begin with, all he could understand it as was the urge. 

Not to breed, or mate, or anything so… clinical. But absolutely physical. 

He'd wanted. He'd said so. He'd laid his cards (the ones, again, not up his entirely metaphorical sleeves) on the table. 

You. Me. Bed. 

And he knew Dorian wanted that, too. From the darkening skin of his cheeks. The press of teeth into lips. The eyes that visited too long, then ran for the hills. The physiological changes that Bull could read like footprints in the snow. 

So. It was only a matter of time, and then it worked, and by the whole Thedan pantheon, but it worked! 

Damn mage taught him even more things. Too smart for his own good. Far, far too smart. 

One night turned to two. Turned to him not leaving. Turned to waking up to the new sensation of someone snoring against his chest. 

Turned to some nights when one or both simply didn't have the drive, or energy. Breathing together. The smell of his hair. The sight of it before he marshalled it in the morning. 

Dorian just… fit. 

Fit, like he was meant to. Into his bed, his arms, and every other crack and cranny. 

Fit into things he had no right to, but which Bull would willingly give him. Things like his thoughts, randomly, throughout the day: a book he saw and it reminded him, a strange echo of him when he wasn't there in person. 

He just. It was right. In all the ways Bull hadn't known there were gaps, and now couldn't bear to think of unfilled. Dorian. 

Bull watched the mage tell someone how wonderful he, himself was. He had to know that everyone heard the question mark at the end. I'm beautiful? I'm smart? I'm skilled? I'm worthy? He didn't lift the tone, but no one repeated it so much who didn't need the cave to echo back confirmation. 

Fucking. 

Ugh. 

No one. He'd never. No one. 

Not before him. 

And as he felt things twist like hands in his guts, only worse… a pain he'd never be able to replicate with any training session… yeah. This one. This one. With all the pain and hurt and fucking empathy. With all his terrified brave face in front of a world he'd never been right for. 

Bull had never wanted… this. Until Dorian. Never understood why the poets and bards and storytellers wove such plaintive tales of yearning. How anyone could need someone like that, or be prepared to be… known. 

But he knew this one. He knew more than anyone had, maybe. And he would protect this one. 

Because it hurt. In good ways. And because it was… family. And because maybe it wasn't too bad to be so dangerously understood by the right person. 

He put a hand on the small of his lover's back, and revelled in the melt he received in return. The shy, hopeful little intake of breath. The eyes that just glanced his way, and said so, so fucking much. 

He'd risked everything. Not just by running away from all he'd ever meant to be, but by sneaking into Bull's room, then into his heart. Too terrified to really ask, but dancing on the edge of a question and a promise and a hope. Let me stay. Let me be me. Let me know you. 

Bull lowered his lips closer to one ear. 

"You are, you know."

"I am… what?"

"Almost everything you tell people you are," he clarified. Beautiful. Smart. Skilled. Worthy. 

"Oh, I am, am I? So good to know..." Still trying to put a brave face on it. Still thinking if he said it loud enough, he could magic it into truth. 

The Iron Bull brushed lips close to a pulse point, hiding a smile. The urge to break the moment with a joke to weaken it, or deflect. 'But I'm better', or 'Only some of it', or…

A glint. A spark. A tiny flash of something, bouncing between them. A fierce need to protect. A… giddiness that his opinion actually matters. A slight slit of dark eyes and a pain that makes him want to burn down the fucking world if he needs to, because he knows this man would do the exact same thing for him. Weird. Just. Weird. To be that important, and to… to be home. 

"Yeah," he husked, allowing the truth of it into his voice. Weakness. Vulnerability. A target. Him. 

He wanted him, physically. Always. But as he felt Dorian lean back, trusting the arms and chest behind him to hold him up, it felt like a dragon had rehinged its jaws around him. Into him. Slicing him to the core. 

Bull pulled Dorian that last bit in, flush against him, reaffirming the promise. Rewarding the trust. Binding the cords ever deeper. 

He said more with that than Bull thought words existed for. 

This one. This one was his. And he was Dorian's every bit as much.


End file.
